


Misotheism

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Split Second (1992)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mild Language, Post Movie, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Romance, just guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 07:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13208985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: Stone had brushed his hand through his hair.Twice.How had he missed that?





	Misotheism

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own "Split Second" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: I have no idea why the hell I am writing fanfiction for a movie from 1992. But here we are, so yeah-
> 
> Warnings: post movie, adult language, PTSD, angst, drama, romance, pre-slash. Basically my take on how the next few days went for Stone and Durkin.

It wasn't until he'd collapsed in bed, mind half-buzzed with pain-killers, anti-biotics and exhaustion, that the details of the past few days finally sunk in. He wrenched himself upright with an ugly sound as one realization startled him above the others. It was more a grunt of pain as the bandages around his chest pulled tight than an actual yelp, but still enough to startle him all over again.

Stone had brushed his hand through his hair.

 _Twice._  
  
How had he missed that?

He knew the answer, of course.

He'd narrowly survived a run in with the creature. And for a long span of hours everything seemed to happen at once. He'd been burning with embarrassment and rage at having to be freed from his own god damned trunk like some green behind the ears rookie. And madder still when he realized he'd merely been the diversion. Heart beat skipping strangely - erratic on adrenaline - as his chest burned like someone had lit a fire inside his ribs.

There hadn't been time to take in the extent of his injuries before Michele's scream sent them running again. But it'd happened. He remembered. He'd reared out of the back of the jeep and Stone had been standing close. Practically touching already. The man could have moved - could have put space between them - but he didn't. Instead he'd-

He let himself fall back against the pillows. Chewing down the grunt of pain as the lingering tart of Stone's cigar made the backwash taste like stale cancer in the back of his mouth.

_Christ._

He hadn't touched the stuff for over five years and that first drag had been more than just a homecoming. It had been forbidden fruit. Because he swore, as he'd exhaled and wreathed the air around Stone's head, he could taste the man's lips on the filter.

He let his hand drift across the mass of bandages before shying away again. Hating that the disembodied burning was still there. Even when the pain was muffled under the painkillers they'd pumped him full of before he'd checked himself out of the hospital.

He didn't want to think about that.

He didn't want to think about what that meant.

Especially considering the creature was dead.

Instead he thought about Stone's hands combing through his hair. Movements stubby-short and terribly endearing. It'd been rather nice in the moment. Comforting and affirming and a thousand shades of half a dozen emotions neither of them were ready for. But ultimately the point remained. The fact that nothing about it made sense.

Stone was an enigma wrapped up in leather, questionable hygiene and an even worse attitude. They'd barely gotten past introductions before everything had gone from bad to worse. Up until things got serious and he proved himself to be useful as well as loyal, Stone had barely tolerated him. Which begged the question, what had  _that_  been about?

He fell asleep before he could find any answers.

* * *

The next few days were worse.

He dragged himself to the office only to find Stone getting the ninth degree from Thrasher and the feds. Locked into meeting after meeting - leaving the lions share of the paperwork to him.

There was media camped out on his front step, twenty-four seven. Hungry for details of a story he didn't know how he was even going to put into words for his final report yet.

He was told by his surgeon that the wounds on his chest would certainly scar. Vividly even. And that the plastic surgery needed to eventually get rid of them wasn't covered by his health insurance.

And while he didn't really have the emotional energy to deal with it, his girlfriend essentially took one look at his chest, his hollow eyes and the gun he'd started sleeping with under his pillow and decided to cut her losses. He came home five days after they'd killed the creature to a half empty apartment and a Dear John letter that talked about how it was too hard for her to look at him now - that all she saw was his chest and the blood that kept seeping from the bandages. That he wasn't giving her what she needed anymore and-

He crumpled it and tossed it out of the window with a snarl that felt strange on his face. Wondering - as he slung back and put a hole in the drywall with his fist - how he could have judged her character so poorly. Finding himself stalled on the realization that Stone - rough as he was - would have never been so superficial or callous.

And all the while his chest burned.

* * *

He woke up the following Monday feverish and unsteady.

Blinking slowly at the clock as he tried to understand the double image he was seeing.

_No!_

The scream that threatened to vacate his lungs got stuck there.  _Stuck. Dying. Dead._  Until some barely remembered instinct forced him to swallow it, choking. Body wrenching as he gagged. Fisting his hands in the sheets as the violent spasms broke the wounds on his chest open again. Forced to suffer through it as the outline of the monster became the shadow of his jacket hanging from the coat rack.

_Fuck._

He collapsed against the mattress, hiccupping. Curling loose into the fetal position as heat radiated from underneath his skin. Burning him alive. Until he was coals and sweat and not much of anything salvageable at all.

He felt-

* * *

The alien heartbeat started again.

Chasing him through his dreams.

Spinning out like his subconscious was a metaphor.

Keeping him  _downdowndown_  where he couldn't escape.

Where he was running.

Where he was screaming for Stone, but never getting a reply.

It caught him.

Down there in the dark.

Dragging him across the moldering concrete as the world tore holes through him.

Scraping metal and soil against his bones until he could see his heart.

Until the monster hooked its claws under his ribs from the inside and-

* * *

"Durkin!"

He jerked awake - perhaps decades later - to the cold slap water hitting him square in the face. Surging up instinctively as he lashed out and connected his fist with something hard.

"Fuck!"

He floundered in the sheets, trying to get away as the shadow staggered back. Reeling. But his legs weren't working. Thrashing weak and disconnected from the rest of him as every square inch of his body ached.

"Calm the fuck down! It's me!"

He made a base sound when his hand found the barrel of his Glock. Fumbling with it before it was slapped out of his hands and suddenly Stone was there. Rearing up like he'd sprung from the earth. Cigarette in danger of slipping from his lips as he knocked him backwards. Flattening him across the mattress and clambering on top of him. Weighing him down as blood streamed from his nose like a leaking facet.

And-  _oh._

"Don't be a dick, Dick!" Stone rasped. Slapping his cheek again until he shook himself and caught the man's hand in his. Stopping the next one from connecting. Blinking fast as the crusts of sleep filtered from his lashes like organic rain.

Stone just grinned. Licking at the blood streaming down from his nose.

"There you are. About time. Shit, Durkin- you were out of it. I've been trying to wake you up for at least half an hour. They teach you to punch like that in Oxford?  _Fuck_. I think you broke my god damned nose."

His jaw popped, finding something of himself as his hand caught the sleeve of the man's coat and held on for dear life.

"Stone?"

"Yeah, I'm here," the man replied, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. Smearing the blood through the tight little bristles of stubble underneath.

"What-"

"Shut up," Stone interrupted, rattling the bottle pills on his bedside table. "Take your fucking meds or I'll get them to give it to you in a god damned  _enema_."

Far more than the recommended dose was slapped into his hand soon after. But he brought his palm up to his mouth anyway. Getting a whiff of actual food clinging to the man's clothes as Stone shoved a glass of luke-warm water into his hand.

He downed the whole thing in a choking rush. Only just realizing how thirsty he was his mouth tarted parched and painfully dry.

"Easy, Oxford. Last thing we need is for you to barf up breakfast," Stone muttered, grabbing the empty cup before tossing it thoughtlessly behind him. Slamming the first aid kit he kept under his kitchen sink down on the bed. "Let's see what we can do about your fucking chest, huh? Looks like you ripped yourself open."

He remembered the pain belatedly.

It felt like years ago.

_How long had he been out?_

Hell, what time was it?

"How long have you been here- and- wait- how did you know where I lived?" he asked, easing back down into the pillows as Stone sliced through the gauze and whistled. Appreciative and wincing all at the same time before smirking up at him like a response to his question was barely secondary.

"You sure did a number on yourself. Probably should drag your ass to the doctor, but frankly I've had my fill of the place over the past few days," the man commented, wetting a wad of cloth with an saline solution before tossing that behind him as well. Littering the carpet with war-zone type debris that secretly made him grin into his own teeth.

Stacy had been mental over the carpet.

Damn near obsessive when it came to keeping it clean.

"I know the feeling," he returned hoarsely. Gritting his teeth as the cloth caught against the cuts. Feeling liquid pool in the grooves of the symbol and start racing the rest in a lazy circle. The marks were just as inflamed as they'd been the day they'd been carved into his chest. Only now the ruby-red slices were furrowed with broken crusts of scabs. Oozing fresh crimson as Stone mopped up the worst of it and started hunting around in the kit for more gauze.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He didn't want to see anymore.

"Stone?"

The answer was immediate. Getting a flash of blue eyes and tired crows feet. Realizing for the first time that the man wasn't wearing his usual shades. Knowing he was staring, but finding there was little he could do about it as the moment stretched. Stone had always drawn him in, one way or another. And this time it was their absence. Softening his face in a way he didn't know he found appealing until he was caught in the middle of it.

"Yeah?"

He flushed. Realizing belatedly that he didn't have anything to say.

"I-"

He broke off. Hedging the atmosphere to awkward as he forced himself to look away. Knowing that sooner or later the man was going to snap at him for staring. Having no idea what his expression was telling at this point as the anxiety that'd been stiffening his muscles up until now slackened against his will. Evidence that the drugs were starting to take effect.

He'd always been a light-weight.

Surprisingly, Stone was the one that broached it. Filling up the silence like he was answering a question. Expression as light as he figured it could be considering the circumstances.

"You didn't show up to work. Or answer your phone. Thrasher was about to send some LEO, but I cut him off at the pass. It's no wonder- you have a fucking  _fever_ , Durkin. I leave you alone for what- four days while the feds have me by the balls and you go off the rails? Thought you'd be fine on your own. Where's little miss sex every night anyway?"

He looked up at the ceiling. Tracking the water stain until it split into two and he had to close them again. Dizzy whenever he tried to focus.

_God, he was tired._

"She left," he answered simply. Like it didn't sting. Managing to inject some feeling into it as he looked over at him and found Stone looking right back at him. The hand on his chest falling still. Keeping him in place. Connected. Not seeming to realize they were bare skin against bare skin as a myriad of expressions were born, then promptly died in the back of his eyes. "Apparently, I neglected to consider her needs during this trying time."

Stone snorted.

"Well, fuck her. Be grateful you dodged that bullet now rather than later. I'm surprised your prick hasn't fallen off anyway. Sex every day, my ass," the man commented. Sitting down on the chair he seemed to have dragged in from the living room. Propping his boots on the mattress as he lit a fresh cigarette and leaned back with a sigh.

"I am," he said emphatically looking up without blinking. Meaning it more than he'd meant anything in a good long time as Stone said nothing. Cigarette drooping lose from his lips like he wanted to, but didn't know what words to use. " _I am grateful_."

Again, he understood the feeling.

Somewhere outside a police siren started up. Hushing chills down the bare flesh of his arms. The events of the past few days proving to be difficult ghosts to shake as he remembered the oppressive gloom of the sewer tunnels. The stench. The water. The warping shadows. Stone just a few steps ahead of him, gun raised.

He licked his lips. Careful. Cautious.

"Harley?"

It came out soft. Just like that moment in the man's apartment when adrenaline-infused hilarity had been next in line on his tongue. Like he wasn't sure of his welcome but needed to say to regardless. Liking how Stone's given name tasted on his lips as they flirted with the syllables.

"Yeah, partner?"

"Stay?"

Stone smiled this time. And perhaps it was even a real one. Like the small, shell-shocked tug that'd made tracks across the man's face when he'd let go of that helpless laugh in Stone's apartment. Like part of him had been unashamedly delighted that another person dared to joke with him about anything. Even if it was just about his name.

"Way ahead of you, Dick," the man grunted, balancing his gun in his lap as he settled into the chair like he was shoring in for the long haul.

All he remembered after that was smiling, weak and sleep-heavy, over at him as his eyes fluttered closed.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, two things were different.

First, his fever had broken.

And second- Stone was fast asleep beside him on top of the covers.

He figured it was a good start, if nothing else.

**Author's Note:**

> Reference:
> 
> * misotheism: the hatred of God or deities.


End file.
